My mother used to clean your house
When we were young
She often came home
Bitching about how insensitive your parents were
I remember her taking me over to your house
When you and your family were not there
I wandered around in awe
Looking at your brand new bikes, boats and cars
And the toys
Oh the toys
I probably played with your toys
More in one hour
Than you did in a lifetime

Then my mom was fired
She was sent on her way
With a trash bag full of hand-me-down clothes
For my sister and I to share
I wore your fucking clothes man
Those old tattered name-brand rags
Which I wanted so bad
When they were new
But I had to wait for you and your brother
To wear out the knees and elbows

I see you today
Wearing holy jeans and beat up hoodies
Strung out on anything you can get your hands on
Bragging about how you were from the East Side
Fuck you rich boy
You are from University Park
The good neighborhood butted up against the ghetto
You choose to accept the poor identity
Of the city where we dwelled
And try to relate to me
But you don’t know

You don’t know a goddamn thing
About the struggles of a poor family
With one parent to depend on
Or about the weight
On a single mother’s shoulders
As she sank
Further and further
Into the quicksand of poverty
And how she had to fight her way out from underneath it
Doing anything to get by
Even taking that bag of dirty had-me-downs
As your mother fired my mom
As she fired!

Well my mom took that fire
Used it to fuel her aspirations
Which were only to see that her children
Did well for themselves as adults
That we would leave that town
Set out to find a place where we could
Meld into middle class America
That we could focus on family
And enjoy each other
Without worrying if the landlord
Would carry out his notice of eviction

So when I see you stumbling
Around this college town
Don’t pretend to only know me
From the one class we had together in high school
Acknowledge the fact that my mother
Worked for your family
And that your mother would periodically ask you
Which clothes you were ready to give
To the poor Prestipino kids
Give me that much, at least
Who knows
Maybe we could grab a beer and laugh about it

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